


Move (Until It All Becomes All Right)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Belts, Breathplay, Commitment, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First-Time I-Love-Yous, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, Love, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Porn With Plot, Protectiveness, Sexual Content, Spanking, Trust, protective!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James really shouldn't hide Michael's cigarettes. More spanking, some misuse of James’s favorite belt, more experimentation of things with BDSM themes; mention of past noncon and emotional h/c, first-time I-love-yous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Move (Until It All Becomes All Right)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Eve 6’s “Nocturnal”. Time for some I-love-you moments, at last!

“James, did you take my cigarettes?”  
   
Michael stared at the unexpectedly empty spot on the bedside table, and listened to the wind howl, appropriately forlorn, in the background. They’d spent all day running around in truckloads of snow, and between channeling all of Erik’s existential rage, the actual physical demands of the day’s scenes, and, after he’d touched James’s icy fingers briefly between takes, the constant low-level worry about how easily James got cold, he’d ended up exhausted and irritable and very much in need of a cigarette. Or two.  
   
And now they were missing. He knew for a fact he’d left them next to the bed. He always did, even though James muttered comments about secondhand smoke and lung cancer every time he spotted them. He generally ignored those comments, because James was still willing to sleep with him anyway.  
   
The polished black surface of the tabletop, devoid of any magically reappearing nicotine, mocked his irritation silently. He glared at it.  
   
This hotel was better than the last one, at least, all white and black and starkly minimalist, and Michael hadn’t actually minded it all that much. James had regarded the featureless room with absolute horror—“That is _not_ a friendly bed! It doesn’t even have a headboard! How’re we supposed to make that work with the handcuffs?”—and then had proceeded to shed clothing and books and martini glasses on every available surface, as if subconsciously trying to make up for the lack of warmth, and Michael had been forced to admit that, yes, the room looked better with all that cheerful evidence of James’s presence in it.  
   
Technically James had his own room, of course, next door. Neither of them had actually been in it. There hadn’t even been any discussion about that; Michael’s room had turned out to be five steps closer to the elevator, and that meant that they could end up naked in bed five steps sooner.  
   
Except that that was kind of a frustrating thought too, at the moment, because Michael had decided that they were definitely not going to do any more experimentation in that area until he could look at those arms and find no lingering traces of metal-induced bruises, and James had rolled his eyes at that and they’d almost had their first real fight but had ended up making love instead, slow and gentle and careful enough to ease past all the still-perilous reefs of emotion and find reassurance waiting there.  
  
And he loved those moments, he really did, the way James smiled at him, heartstoppingly beautiful in the middle of all that shared pleasure, the feeling of those arms around him, holding them together afterwards. He wanted all of that, too.  
   
But he kept thinking about James in shining handcuffs, or bent over the bed, Michael’s handprints burning red across that pale skin.  
   
James had even offered, had put his hand on Michael’s and tried to move it past his hip and somewhere else, but it’d still been too early and Michael had caught sight of nearly-vanished discolorations like smoke-smudges across the freckles on that wrist, and he’d said “Wait” and clung to his self-imposed denial with increasing desperation. He was very sure, from the looks he’d been getting since then, that James was sharing his frustration, with far less patience.  
   
Right now, in fact, looking at the tragic absence of cigarettes on his table, he suspected that James’s patience had run out. He should probably try to be understanding about that, but it’d been a damn long day. He just wanted this one thing, and then he could try to be nice to James. Maybe. If James apologized.  
   
The wind, not dying away, grumbled noisily through the cold night air, as if it sympathized.  
   
“James?” he said again.  
   
James, in the middle of kicking off his shoes—the ominously black carpet had turned out to be surprisingly comfortable, a discovery they’d made inadvertently but enthusiastically, and James walked around barefoot on it whenever possible, which Michael found secretly adorable—looked up, and said, “Hmm?” and wandered over to stand beside him.  
   
“Missing something, are you?” Not even an attempt to sound surprised. Michael turned the glare on him instead of the tabletop, where it wasn’t working anyway. It had about the same effect.  
   
“There are better ways to get my attention, you know.” Possibly ways that wouldn’t involve him wanting to throw one of those abandoned shoes at James out of sheer annoyance.  
   
“Yes, but none of them seemed to be working. And cigarettes are bad for you.”  
   
“You—” Michael began, and then stopped, because yes, he was very tired and he wanted to be upset, but James was standing there smiling at him, all wide-eyed beneath tiredly rumpled hair, hands shoved into his pockets against the cold, wiggling bare toes happily in the luxurious carpet, and a spike of pure and sudden _want_ came out of nowhere and turned all the potential anger into something very different.  
   
“James?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“Clothes off. Now.”  
   
James started to say something else, probably some sort of amused reply, and then looked at Michael’s expression, and actually licked his lips, and managed to lose every stitch of clothing in approximately five seconds.  
   
And then stared, accusingly. “Wait, you’re not naked!”  
   
“No. Just you. Over the bed, James.”  
   
Those eyes got a little larger, and James hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, and Michael thought about what they were about to do and about what he knew regarding James’s past encounters with someone who wasn’t him, and mentally kicked himself, even as James took a small step toward the bed.  
   
“No, wait. Look at me. I’m not angry with you. I promise. That’s not why.”  
   
James hesitated again, and then nodded. The wind, picking up, rattled the glass in the windowpane across the room. “Sorry, by the way. I took them this morning; I didn’t think you’d have such a…”  
   
“…fucking exhausting day? I know. Don’t worry about that. I don’t care. Come here. Please.” He put both arms around James, who leaned against him, and after a minute he felt some of the tension go away. The breezes, outside, pulled leaves out of the trees and made them dance past the tiny opening where he hadn’t quite closed the curtains.  
   
James watched the leaves spin, briefly, and then looked back at Michael and smiled. “Maybe we can work out some of your stress, then? I’m sure sex is supposed to be good for that, you know.”  
   
“Only if you want to.”  
   
“So…you did say over the bed, didn’t you? Like this?”  
   
 Michael swallowed, hard, watching James get into position for him. “Exactly like that.”  
   
“What did you have in mind?”  
   
He thought about that. Rested a hand on soft skin, still unmarked, waiting for his touch. “How many, do you think? You did take my cigarettes; I’m pretty sure that deserves some retribution.”  
   
“How many what—oh. Oh.” James breathed in, against the sheets, a little shiver of anticipation. “I don’t know. Ten? More? What do you want?”  
   
“We can start with ten. And I want you to count for me. Each one. Can you do that?”  
   
“Yes…” James was still breathing quickly, but the sound wasn’t hesitant at all. More like eagerness. Expectation. Desire.  
   
James stayed in place, waiting for him, stretched out beautifully naked over the bed, and Michael abruptly found himself very aware that he was still very clothed, standing there, and the contrast left him breathless and awestruck, at that level of trust, at James, so willing to be vulnerable for him, letting him be in charge, completely.  
   
He didn’t know how to say any of that, not out loud, but James was still waiting for him, and he did know how hard it was for James to be patient. So he brought his hand down against the offered curve of skin, and watched the first flush of pinkness appear in its wake.  
   
James whispered, “One,” and Michael suddenly wondered how the hell they were going to make it to ten, because James counting for him, each time, in that voice, might actually drive him insane with want well before then.  
   
The second one evened out the pinkness on both sides, and when James said “Two” his voice actually sounded a little more steady, almost calm, as if he were growing used to the rhythm, so Michael made the next two a little harder, a little faster, not quite giving him time to recover in between. Calm was not, precisely, the goal, after all.  
   
“Four…” That one was definitely more shaky, and Michael paused to run a hand along his back, and said, softly, “Still good?” and got a nod in return, against the no-longer-crisp whiteness of the sheets.  
   
When he leaned over to look into wide eyes, James gasped, and he realized that, with the change in position, the worn denim of his jeans had brushed roughly against newly-hot skin. He _was_ still dressed, he remembered all over again. Somehow that made things different, in an indefinable way.  
   
“Sorry. Did that hurt?”  
   
“No…you’re fine.” James tried to blink clinging hair out of his eyes and failed, and Michael reached out and did it for him. James smiled, at that. “Were we up to five?”  
   
“Yes.” Five. And then six. Again a little harder, because James didn’t seem to mind. His hand tingled with it, with the sensation of warmth, of softness, of James being his.  
   
James kept counting, softly, and all those glorious freckles could barely be seen, now, swallowed up by visible heat, by the lingering presence of Michael’s handprints on his skin, artifacts like treasures of scattered ruby and gold, and Michael wanted to tell him how perfect he was, how lovely, how much Michael really didn’t give a damn about the cigarettes because, yes, they were bad for him and he knew it but they were only an excuse anyway, because he hadn’t been able to admit how much he’d been wanting to do this again.  
   
James breathed “Eight” without looking up, that familiar accent gone ragged around the edges like torn silk, threaded with gold and twisted up into knots, and Michael paused to look at him and realized that his hips were still shivering, making small thrusts against the bed, cock pressing into the welcome of the sheets as if James couldn’t help the movements any longer.  
   
He said, softly, “Impatient, are you?” and James stopped moving, with Michael’s hand still resting in place, adding weight to the burning warmth. “I—”  
   
“I think you get two more, for that. Twelve.” He wrapped hands around inviting hips and tugged, moving James away from the bed, keeping relief just out of reach, and James groaned. “Now you’re just being cruel.”  
   
“Patience is a virtue, you know.”  
   
James muttered something unflattering about the state of Michael’s relationship with virtue, and Michael tried not to laugh, not entirely successfully. “Did I say you could insult me?”  
   
“You didn’t say I couldn’t.”  
   
“Ah.” They were doing that, then. Okay. He could handle that. “Are you asking me to do this harder? Because I can.”  
   
“Can, or will? Two different verbs.”  
   
“Not the time for vocabulary lessons, James.” And he’d practically been challenged to make James feel the next ones, hadn’t he? So he did. James gasped at the first impact, and then audibly stopped breathing, momentarily, at the second.  
   
Michael held his breath, too—had that been too much, too fast?—but just as he opened his mouth to ask the question, he heard James say, quietly, “Nine. And ten.”  
   
“You’re amazing.”  
   
Which earned him a sideways look, under all the hair, from amused blue eyes. “You have very low standards for amazement, don’t you?”  
   
“No. I have you. I’m pretty certain nothing else compares.” Or ever would, again. He watched James collect air again, a little shakily, and made a mental note about comparative strength and spankings and how hard he would allow himself to do this, in the future. Anyway, James had said he wanted more talking in bed, too, right? They could talk for a minute before doing anything else. The wind, out in the night, hummed in agreement.  
   
Besides, he’d had an idea, earlier that day, while watching James run around in fluffy parkas, gleefully bouncing into all the snow; in between filming their actual scenes, his own efforts to make sure that James was never allowed to be cold ever, and the epic snowball fight they’d ended up starting with Kevin and January and the fellow members of the Hellfire Club—which they had, of course, won, mostly because James was worrisomely devious in the area of snow-related warfare—he’d been imagining himself removing all those woolly layers later, and had started wondering about what else those concealing outfits might be useful for.  
   
He leaned over to find blue eyes again, beneath the tumble of hair, and put his hand on the bed, fingers brushing against James’s, where they were clinging to the sheets. “So I was thinking…”  
   
James eyed him, and the suddenly quiescent hand, quizzically. “We’re not stopping, are we? I was counting very accurately, you know, and you did say two more.”  
   
“I know you were. And no. Just giving you a break.”  
   
“Oh…thank you. Though you don’t have to. I’m fine, really. Thinking about what?”  
   
“Well…you said you own a…you could…you know your vibrator?”  
   
“Unless this is a very bizarre trick question, the only possible answer to that question is yes.”  
   
“You,” Michael said, and actually laughed, out loud, at that. Because James would always, always surprise him. Because he’d never get tired of being surprised. Because doing this, with James, was so much damned _fun_.  
   
He saw James smile, too, and the laughter floated in under his skin and wrapped itself around his heart, golden effervescence like bubbles of champagne, running outward through his veins, everywhere, filling him—no, _them_ , he knew that for a fact, could see the shared joy in the bright line of that smile—up with light.  
   
And he didn’t have words for all of that, so he brought his hand down in that same still-offered place one more time, the heat of it like a promise, a silent and tangible agreement between the two of them, leaving his fingers hyper-aware of every encounter of skin on skin. He watched those hips lift with the impact, in greeting, in invitation.  
   
He just possibly might be the luckiest person in the world, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve this, to be given this, but he knew with unshakable certainty that he’d be willing to spend every single day and every matching night, too, trying to make James feel all of that happiness as well, if James would let him have the chance.  
   
“Mmm. Eleven. So was there more to that thought, or were you just picturing me enjoying myself? Because if you wanted me to demonstrate—”  
   
“Yes. Very much yes. But actually…I was thinking I’d like you to wear it. All day. Without anyone knowing. On the set, while we’re filming. For me.”  
   
James had already opened his mouth to reply, but no words emerged.  
   
“You did ask.” He tried not to sound too satisfied with that reaction.  
   
“Oh, my god…”  
   
“Oh, my god, yes? Or no? Or maybe?”  
   
“I—yes, all right, yes, but you are aware that I might actually die of embarrassment, or possibly sexual frustration, before the day ends, and then that’ll be all your fault, and you’ll be entirely sorry, and I’ll haunt you from beyond the grave, I swear.”  
   
“Do ghosts still get to enjoy vibrators, do you think?”  
   
“I hate you.”  
   
“You do not.”  
   
“Oh, I don’t? And how do you know that?”  
   
“Because you’ve just agreed to do this for me. All day, remember. I want you ready for me later on.”  
   
“I did say yes, didn’t I? I suppose I don’t hate you after all.” James shifted his feet, slightly. Probably getting ready to ask when they were going to get back to certain things, because James still hadn’t learned the value of patience. And Michael didn’t mind that at all, in any way. Wouldn’t want him to change, ever.  
   
“Good.” He hesitated, because, on the topic of changes and things he couldn’t change, there was something that had been bothering him, just a little but persistently so, ever since he’d learned about it.  
   
“James?”  
   
“Hmm? Did you think of something else terribly embarrassing—and also a surprising turn-on, by the way, I don’t think I mentioned how much I like the idea of fulfilling this particular request for you—that you’d enjoy? I’ll probably say yes, you know.”  
   
“I’m glad you like the idea.” Which likely wasn’t a strong enough word for his current emotions, after hearing that. “But no. Um. Something else.” How was he supposed to ask this question? There weren’t appropriate words for his emotions about this subject, either.  
   
The wind chose this moment to rattle the windowpane at them again, possibly because the universe had a sense of dramatic timing, or just wanted to mock his inability to form complete sentences.  
   
“Do you ever…you told me you had…do you ever think about him? About the person who tried to—to hurt you, before?” He couldn’t say _who tried to use a knife on you in bed_. He might not ever be able to say the word _knife_ again. Which might be a problem, at some future point in time, but he’d deal with that when he had to.  
   
“What, _now_?”  
   
“Well, I hope not _right_ now, no.” He meant that in at least two ways, even though he wasn’t sure James heard it as such. That was part of the question he didn’t know how to ask, too.  
   
“I—why are you asking? And why at this specific moment?”  
   
“Because I—” Michael stopped, astonished, at the word that had presented itself. Love? He’d never been in love, as far as he knew; wasn’t love supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns and rainbows and terribly sappy romantic poetry? Could that be the same word for what he felt, looking down at James, who had, until approximately five seconds ago, been leaning contentedly on the bed with Michael’s handprints still leaving visible marks of possession across his skin?  
   
Now, though, James had actually managed to flip over onto his back and sit up—apparently startlement took precedence over the scrape of cotton sheets against newly tender areas—and he was staring up at Michael with wide eyes like curious sapphires, obviously waiting for him to finish the damn sentence already. Technically Michael hadn’t ever told him that he could move, of course, but they both ignored that fact for the moment.  
   
He’d had to ask the question. He needed to know. Because if James was still hurting from that encounter somehow, old wounds still bleeding inside, then Michael would give anything, do everything, in order to make things right. Would try to move mountains, or change the world, if James needed the world to change.  
   
“Because I want to help,” he said, quietly, after a second, and meant every word, with everything he was. And wondered, even as he said it, if maybe he’d also meant to say _love_ there after all.  
   
James smiled; the sapphires, deep in those eyes, danced again. “You are helping. You don’t need to do anything else. Though I am starting to think we should work on your sense of timing. Why did you want to discuss this now, again?”  
   
“You didn’t actually answer the question.” He was holding his breath, he realized, as if that might somehow ward off the imminent heartbreak. He could feel it waiting there, in that absence of an answer, in the sudden cessation of the silenced wind outside.  
   
But James blinked at him with genuine surprise, at that. “I didn’t? Then, no. Mostly no. Obviously not never. But I did tell you it was a long time ago. And I meant that.” And then reached out, curled fingers into Michael’s shirt, and tugged until Michael sat down on the bed next to him.  
   
“All right.” He could believe that, maybe, with James sitting there next to him, those blue eyes looking right into his own. “ _Mostly_ no, you said. But you still want—why do you let me—”  
   
“You mean why do I want you to do the things with the spankings and the handcuffs and whatever else you’ve bought that we haven’t tried yet and should? Because we both enjoy it; why do you think?” James grinned, but the depths of his eyes stayed, for once, absolutely serious. “Because I know you’re not going to hurt me. Because you’re not him, and I’m not who I was then, either, and because I trust you. I _want_ to trust you. And I’m happy, I promise. With this. With you. You make me happy. Is that enough of an answer for you?”  
   
“Yes,” Michael managed to say, and then had to kiss him, because it was that or let James see the telltale evidence of just how relieved he was. James welcomed the kiss, unhesitatingly, not holding anything back, keeping no secrets, and Michael said after a while, “Just happy? Not ecstatic? Am I not trying hard enough?” and James laughed.  
   
“I think ecstatic happens momentarily, doesn’t it? After you get naked as well? I think you need to be naked now.”  
   
Michael started to comply with that request, because he very definitely thought so too, and then looked at James, still perched on the edge of the bed in the midst of thoroughly disheveled white sheets, and stopped. “Wait…we weren’t done, were we?”  
   
“We said ten, didn’t we?”  
   
“You said ten. I said twelve. And either way that was eleven.” And if James had been thinking ten but had let him get away with eleven, they needed to talk about the rules for this again.  
   
But apparently not.  “Just wondering whether you remembered. I did.”  
   
“Then…one more. Back over the bed.” He saw the answering smile, and then James promptly slid back into his previous position, as instructed. No hesitation. No doubt. Just trust, freely offered. To him.  
   
The sound his hand made, connecting, echoed into the crystalline air of the hotel room, and lingered there, bright and warm, and when James whispered “Twelve,” the word floated out to join in all the happiness, filling up the space around them.  
   
Outside, the wind tugged at the windows, and blew a forceful gust of leaves across the glass, as if wanting to come in and be a part of the moment; James turned his head and met Michael’s gaze, still smiling, and the smile surfaced in those eyes, too, silent treasure glinting like gold beneath tropical seas.  
   
His fingers had ended up wrapped into the sheets again, holding on, making new creases in white cotton, and when Michael put his own tingling hand atop them, the wind sang to them more loudly, merrily, out in the night.  
   
James kissed his fingertips, lightly, more a brush of air than anything else, and Michael said, “Did you want me to be naked, then?” and James proclaimed, “Yes, absolutely, yes,” with gratifying immediacy.  
   
“One second.” He retrieved the hand, reluctantly, and started to pull off his shirt, and then his foot hit something on the floor, something which shifted in place with a small clank.  
   
When he glanced down, the leather of James’s discarded belt gazed back at him, suggestively, and the idea that turned up, entirely unbidden, in his head, sent a shock of pure electricity through his entire body. No, he thought. No. Surely James wouldn’t let him do that. He couldn’t ask.  
   
But he picked the belt up off the floor anyway, without really deciding to.  
   
“James?”  
   
“Hmm?” James still hadn’t moved, possibly because Michael hadn’t told him to, or maybe he was just comfortable there, waiting.  
   
“How do you feel about this?”  
   
James turned around to look, and when he spotted the curl of his belt in Michael’s hand, the tropical-water eyes widened into astonished blue oceans, but he didn’t say no.  
   
“Really? Maybe.”  
   
“Maybe?” He couldn’t do this, no matter how much he wanted to, with only a maybe. “No? Or yes? You have to tell me.”  
   
“Yes, then. I think. That’s definitely a new one for me. But yes. If you want.”  
   
“I think…yes.” It was new for him, too, and some part—actually, many parts—of his brain still felt fundamentally shocked by the idea, but James had said yes and that yes was lighting little fires of possessive want inside his bones, under his skin, and he had to know what James would look like, afterwards, had to find out if it would feel the same, or different, leather and not his hand marking that skin as his.   
   
“Okay. Yes. Don’t move, then. And you have to tell me if I—if this is too much, ever—”  
   
He couldn’t help worrying about that, considering the little he did know about what might’ve happened in that long-ago encounter. James had said it was his own fault, which was clearly just wrong in every possible way, but he’d also said it had happened because he hadn’t said stop soon enough; and Michael tried not to think about that, because James was obviously fine now, he did believe that, but what if James _did_ just let him keep going, and he pushed things too far? And James trusted him, not to be that person, not to hurt him again, ever.  
   
“Of course, I will.” James sounded perfectly confident, if not quite calm. The confidence helped. “Go ahead, then.”  
   
Michael breathed in—the wind, outside, held its breath too—and did what he’d been wanting to do, and watched leather collide with still-pink skin. They both flinched, slightly, at the crack, and he stood there very still, staring, mesmerized, at the sudden red line he’d just made, straight and clear, bisecting a little group of golden freckles.  
   
“James?”  
   
“I…didn’t tell you to be done, did I?”  
   
“All right, then…”  
   
Again. More lines, bright abstract artwork, decorating James for him. He could hear James breathing, small shivery sounds that weren’t coming from pain, and he could barely form coherent thoughts anymore, listening. He was a little surprised he could remember how to make his own lungs work, at that.  
   
He tried not to make them too quick, or too close together, but after a few minutes he realized he’d been making each one a little harder, unconsciously. He could see the difference, the gradients of color, the last few leaving marks that didn’t quite fade, visibly touchable, and he wanted to touch. Wondered how they’d feel under his fingertips, and if James would moan beneath his hands.  
   
One more, because, at that thought, he had to; and James said his name, softly, and then, “Wait…”  
   
“Do you want me to stop?”  
   
“I think…yes. Please. Sorry.”  
   
“You don’t need to apologize for anything. You’re perfect. And you can always tell me to stop. Thank you for telling me, this time.”  
   
“Well, you asked me to.” James offered the answer as if it were simple. And maybe it was.  
   
He tossed James’s belt across the room, not caring where it landed, and sat down next to him, on the floor, where he could be the one looking up at James for once. He felt like he might actually explode with desire, hard as hell beneath all the clothing he was _still_ wearing, but despite all the talking James hadn’t glanced in his direction yet, and he had to make sure.  
   
James looked down at him, surprised, and then smiled, and Michael’s heart did an absurd little flip in place, at that. “Are you checking on me? I’m fine. Actually…”  
   
“Actually what?” Michael reached out, and ran a hand along his back and further down, hesitating at the edge of tender skin, and James whispered, “You can touch, go on, I’d like it…”  
   
He moved the hand, as gently as he could, and felt the trembling with the brush of each fingertip, but James stayed still, and let him explore. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”  
   
James let out a little huff of laughter. “No.”  
   
“Yes, you are. Not just like this. Always.” He fit his fingers, experimentally, into two of the deeper lines. James did moan, at that, and the sound went straight through all the clothing and right to his now-desperate cock, and he got back to his feet because he had to move or else he’d end up being done right then, just like that, still sitting on the thoroughly fluffy hotel carpet next to the solid onyx bulk of the bed.  
   
He left his hand where it was, and pressed a little harder, and felt long legs shake, still spread apart obediently for him. When he moved his other hand, he realized just how hard James was, how close, already wet with it, and when he wrapped his fingers around all that neediness James actually whimpered.

“Please—”  
   
“This—it was that good, for you?”  
   
“Yes…” When Michael touched him again, one hand sliding along his cock and the other still rubbing extra heat into the newborn lines, James shivered all over, and almost lost his balance. “So _close_ —please—can I—?”  
   
And Michael couldn’t form any sort of reply immediately, despite how badly he wanted to, because James was asking him for _permission_ , and that was…that was beyond anything he’d ever thought of, and he couldn’t find any sounds for a while.  
   
Once he thought he might able to talk again, he took away the hand around James’s cock, and heard the little groan of frustration, at the sudden denial. “You…do you remember what we talked about, the very first time we did this?”  
   
“What? No. Yes. Was there a question? _Please_.”  
   
Michael almost laughed at that, but James sounded right on the edge, and he didn’t want to be too sadistic. Besides, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait, himself.  
   
“I said I’d make you come, just like this, just from my hand on you.” He settled his fingers into the lines that still hid all the freckles behind new bright redness, to demonstrate, and James was practically begging now, whispering his name, whispering “please” and “yes” over and over, and he wasn’t going to say no to James begging, so he stroked his hand across all those marks, pressing as hard as he thought might be all right, and whispered back, “Now,” and James came for him, from his touch, with a little gasping scream.  
   
He caught James as those shaking legs gave up, before he could collapse onto the floor, and eased him back onto the bed. “Good?”  
   
James made an inarticulate sound, and reached for him, still trembling, and Michael just held him for a minute, while his breathing started to slow into something approaching normal. The wind purred at them, behind the curtains.  
   
“James? Can you talk yet?”  
   
“No. Words? What’re those? Am I supposed to remember them?”  
   
“So you are all right.”  
   
“I’m brilliant. You’re brilliant. You have brilliant ideas. Can we do that again sometime? Not now.”  
   
“Yes, you are, no, I’m not, yes, it was, and yes, we can. Later. If you want.”  
   
“Oh, I want.” James rolled over, stretched every single graceful limb out, and then just lay there, happily occupying ninety percent of the bed. Which was impressive, Michael had to admit, because that really shouldn’t be possible for someone that size. Not that he was going to ask James to move, of course.  
   
As if he’d heard that thought, James looked over and smiled at him, still exhausted, hair sticking to his face, eyes all bright with satisfied desire. “What about you, then? Not fair for you to spend all your time just making me feel fantastic.”  
   
Michael studied him for a minute, stretched out against the no-longer-pristine whiteness of the sheets. He’d watched James come apart under his hands, had left red-hot marks across those freckles—he could still feel the heat, the memories of sensation hovering at his fingertips—and made James beg for him, and now James was looking up at him, cheerfully asking what he could do to make Michael happy, and Michael stared back at him and wanted to hold onto this moment, that look, the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves outside, and James himself, forever.  
   
He opened his mouth, intending to answer the question, and what came out, with absolutely no hesitation or second-guessing at all, were the words, “I love you, you know.”  
   
James, still comfortably sprawled across the bed, contemplated that statement without bothering to move. “I did say earlier that we needed to work on your sense of timing, didn’t I? Because you’ve picked a really strange moment to tell me this, you realize.”  
   
“Um. Sorry?” What else could he say to that? Should he say it again? Would James say it back, if he said it again? If he tried to be more romantic about it? Would James want some sort of romantic declaration?  
   
For that matter, he wondered suddenly, remembering fingertips coaxing the reality of pain out of dark bruises, would James even believe that Michael did feel that way about him? At least James didn’t look disturbed at all by the abrupt pronouncement of love, but maybe that was just because he was too tired to show it.  
   
“For one thing, I’m very naked, and you’re still very dressed, and I feel that if we’re going to make declarations of mutual adoration, we ought to have equal amounts of clothing on. Or not on. And I think I’m a bit sore. Sorry. And you’re looking at me very oddly now.”  
   
“Did you just say mutual?”  
   
“Yes, I did. I love you, too. Which you might’ve guessed, considering the use I’ve just let you make of my belt. I like that belt, too, and I’m not sure I can ever wear it again in public, after that—”  
   
“James. Really?”  
   
“Which part? Or do you want me to say it all again?”  
   
“Yes. I do. But I meant the part where you love me.”  
   
“I love you, Michael Fassbender,” James said promptly, grinning. “You make me want to smile all the time, you’re spectacular in bed, you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, and you always try to keep me from being cold, and you worry way too much, and I love you. Was that enough? I can say more things if you’d like.”  
   
“ _Yes_ ,” Michael said, and then lunged across the bed and claimed those still-smiling lips with his own, until James ended up breathless again and flushed and laughing, into the kiss. “You’re incredible. I love you, too.” He might never get tired of saying that. Of hearing James say it back to him.  
   
“So...how sore is ‘a bit’?”  
   
“Oh…not that much. Certainly not enough to bother about, if you want to—”  
   
“I want you, _now_ ,” Michael told him, and lost all the interfering clothes as fast as he could, while James observed the process with evident appreciation  
   
He tried to be gentle, because he knew that if James was admitting to a bit of soreness that probably meant a lot, and he listened to each tiny gasp when he traced fingers, slick with lube, across the invitingly wounded skin and inside, easing James open for him, clinging to self-control with his fingernails when he finally slid into that warmth and James sighed, the sound like coming home, as if he’d just been waiting for Michael to fill that perfect space.  
   
When he moved, James gasped again, and Michael whispered, “All right?” and James managed, in between panting breaths, “Yes—harder, if you want—” and so he did, because James had told him it was okay, and then did it again.  
   
And the sound that James made then was very nearly a scream, and with the last shred of his sanity Michael remembered that they were still in a damn hotel room, with accompanying hotel-thin walls, and, desperate, he put one hand over James’s mouth, maybe with a little more force than he’d meant to, except James shivered slightly at the last second and the hand ended up someplace where, if he left it there, would leave James unable to breathe at all unless Michael moved, and let him.  
   
They both froze in place at that, and Michael _knew_ that James was having the exact same thought he was, because it was the only possible thought in the world just then.  
   
And James stared up at him, still not moving, those eyes wider than Michael had ever seen them. Their blueness, gazing back at him from above his hand, appeared a lot shocked, but, and Michael felt a little dizzy seeing this, not at all dismayed or protesting their current positions.  
   
“James,” he whispered, and lifted the hand, carefully, so James could answer, because there was no way in hell they were doing this without James actually saying yes out loud, “do you want—do you want me to—?”  
   
James nodded, very slowly. Whispered back, “I think so, yes.”  
   
“Okay. Okay. We can do this.” He said it as much for himself as for James; he was absolutely terrified and brilliantly excited and more thrillingly, achingly, aroused than he could remember ever having been in his life.  
   
“Do you want me to do this—” he ran his thumb across those lips again—“or this?” This time he brushed fingers against the long lines of James’s throat, pale and sparkling with scattered freckles and soft to his touch.  
   
James swallowed; he felt the movement through his entire body. “I…don’t know. What—what do you want?”  
   
“This was working for you, right?” He rested fingers over James’s lips again, not exerting pressure yet. “Start there?”  
   
“Yes.” The word, carried on a breath of air, felt warm when it touched his skin.  
   
“All right. If you need to stop—the second you aren’t comfortable, no matter what—you have to tell me. Here…” He lifted James’s hands, put them on his own arms. “Just push hard, all right? Both hands.”  
   
James nodded, and curled fingers around his biceps, holding on, lightly, for the moment. And then smiled, anticipation surfacing through the deep waters of those eyes. “Love you.”  
   
“I—James, I love you too. So damn much.” He wanted to be more eloquent, wanted to find words for the heat between them that had nothing to do with the physical sensations, but he was having a hard enough time thinking as it was. “Are you really sure? You’d let me do this?”  
   
“Yes. I’m—you know I’m yours. Everything. Even this. Please.” Still smiling, still wanting him. Trusting him.  
   
“You know I’m yours, too,” Michael told him, because it was true, and then waited for James to nod, and then put that hand back in place, taking control of that, too, even the air, even his ability to breathe, because James wanted him to. And then he moved.  
   
After a few seconds he could tell that the lack of air was starting to matter; James was shivering almost continuously beneath him now, losing coordination, losing control, and Michael thrust into him harder, feeling James tremble helplessly with each impact. Those blue eyes, above his hand, weren’t quite focused anymore, fog drifting in over the waters, and Michael whispered, “James, look at me,” and watched James try.  
   
The effort, if not quite successful, offered reassurance—James was still there, still hearing him—and his hips collided with still-hot skin, burning from the marks he’d left earlier, and Michael felt the movement of lips against his hand as James tried to cry out at the roughness and couldn’t, no air left at all, just the tremors that kept his entire body shaking with need.  
   
He breathed, looking into those suddenly distant blue depths, “James, come for me, _now_ ,” and he didn’t know whether James heard him or not, but he felt the shudder of that complete final surrender, white heat exploding between them, and he was coming, too, every part of his body impossibly alive with it, with the feeling of James beneath him, around him, entirely his.  
   
James shuddered beneath him again, and then went almost completely still, except for tiny shivering aftershocks, and those ocean-water eyes drifted shut in a sweep of eyelashes like the uncaring tide.  
   
Michael yanked his hand away. “James? Breathe.”  
   
He still couldn’t tell whether James had heard him, but James _was_ breathing, he could see the motion of it, regular and reassuring. He could feel himself shaking, too, from the aftermath—he’d never felt anything like that, ever, and he wanted to collapse into the bed and hold onto James forever—but also out of sudden fear, because those eyes were staying shut for a little too long.  
   
“James? Are you—can you be awake? Please look at me if you’re awake.”  
   
A beat, long enough for the fear to explode into incendiary dread inside his chest, where it burned away at his attempts to remain calm, and then James opened his eyes, very very slowly. “Hi.”  
   
“Oh god—James—thank you--are you all right?”  
   
“I think so…did you say thank you? Are _you_ all right?” James blinked, getting the world back into focus, and then smiled, and Michael couldn’t speak, looking down at him. “That was…I don’t know what that was. Incredible. Maybe a little bit frightening, honestly. But amazing. Spectacular. Sparkly.”  
   
“Sparkly?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Fair enough.” Actually, he sort of felt sparkly, too. Like starlight, running across his skin, in the sounds of each heartbeat, the rise and fall of James breathing, in and out, beneath him.  
   
“I think….that’s not an everyday thing, all right? I can’t…I mean, I can. Obviously. That was—everything you just said. All of that. But you scared the hell out of me, just now. I thought—I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t—if I couldn’t wake you up.” He stopped there, because he had to; the words had piled up somewhere in his throat, trapped there by that one horrifying thought, and he couldn’t say anything anymore, so he just held onto James as tightly as he could and hoped he’d made enough sense, at least.  
   
James just looked at him for a second, eyes like the tranquility of undisturbed oceans, and then nodded, because somehow James understood all of that, all the things that Michael couldn’t explain, and just said, quietly, “I love you.”  
   
Michael breathed out, and said, “Oh, _fuck_ , thank you, I love you too, and I didn’t mean never, you know that, just not too often, I mean what we just did, the sex part not the loving you part, of course, I love you always,” and then had to stop talking again because James was laughing, the bastard.  
   
“Sorry, sorry…”  
   
“I’m so glad my concern for your well-being amuses you.”  
   
“Oh, no…no, I’m not laughing at you, I promise…”  
   
“Yes, you are!” Michael pointed out, and then started laughing, too, because James was now trying to summon an appropriately guilty expression through all the amusement and failing utterly. Because James could always make him want to laugh, even when he still felt slightly shaky with the aftermath of everything they’d just done.  
   
He held onto James in the middle of the bed, sheets tangled up messily around them and pillows shoved out of the way, and the wind murmured back at their laughter from outside, and James put both arms around him, and Michael told him, one more time, “I love you,” and heard James say it at exactly the same time, so the words came out in unison, together.  
   
After a few minutes of contented silence, except for the companionable wind still making friends with their windowpane, he added, “James?”  
   
“Still love you. Did you want me to let go of you now? Because we should probably shower at some point.”  
   
“Love you. Probably, yes. But I was wondering…if I bought more cigarettes…would you take them again?”  
   
And James grinned. “Of course I would.”  
   
“Then I’m pretty certain I saw some for sale in the hotel lobby. I can pick those up tomorrow.” And then, as James started to change positions and stopped the motion far too quickly, “No. The day after tomorrow.”  
   
“Oh, really, I’m fine—”  
   
“I saw your expression just now. Two days. At least.”  
   
“It’s not that bad, you know. You don’t have to worry.”  
   
“Three days.”  
   
James sighed. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“All right, then. Two days. You have two days to go shopping.”  
   
“I keep them next to the bed.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“I love you.”  
   
And James kissed him, and said, “I know.”


End file.
